


she who god favors

by CrayfishCoffee



Category: A Crown of Candy - Fandom, Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25836757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayfishCoffee/pseuds/CrayfishCoffee
Summary: Out of respect for Citrina’s preferences in life, her doppelgänger is memorialized with a blue hood covering her head. Only the slightest hints of honey-gold hair peek out from beneath it, and Belizabeth’s eyes fixate on them hungrily.“I know what your hair looked like, beneath the veil,” she whispers so faintly she practically mouths the words, “The people who come here do not, but I do–every last twist and trace of it.”In which there are things no amount of penance can account for.
Relationships: Belizabeth Brassica/Citrina Rocks
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	she who god favors

Light illuminates the glass face of Saint Citrina as she stares serenely down upon the unlit candles and wooden pews below. This being an offshoot chapel from the main basilica, there are not so many rows of pews as there are in the main chamber, although the sheer popularity of this chapel means that there is often very little extra seating space to be found. To say Citrina was a beloved figure in life would only mean that admiration crystalized upon her death–there are an abundance of patrons who come silently petition the lemondrop Saint, and many who have petitioned for a larger shrine to be dedicated to her holy visage.

Today, however, is a day in which the chapel is pristine and people-less. The mosaic grout had begun to deteriorate and loosen with age in more than a few places, and so this arm of the basilica has temporarily been sectioned off from the public to allow the restoration team to work in peace. Today, the craftsmen worked with a particular efficiency that allowed them to return home before the sun had truly begun to set in the sky, a rare treat they capitalized on quickly. The hallways are empty, the rooms silent, and gust motes float lazily in the undisturbed air.

It is in this way that when the Hierophant Rex of the Bulbian Church enters into the chapel of Saint Citrina, she knows that she is entirely, utterly alone. 

Belizabeth Brassica has spent the majority of her life inside buildings of worship. She polished statues by hand, learned her letters from yellowing text, and can even recall the feeling of pew wood under her sleeping head when she was still of an acceptable age to do so. Were she to live in the countryside for five-hundred years, she does not think she could rid herself of the scent of incense and candle wax. An unfortunate side effect of this, is that holy structures do not have the same effect of inspiring awe within her. She does not shrink back from the hollow reverb of her shoes colliding with the stone, nor from the insignificance of her breath amidst such a large and open space. She treats The Bulb’s temples with respect, of course, but awe is not something she has the capacity nor time for these days.

Upon entering the chapel, however, a brief feeling of reverence returns to Belizabeth’s chest. Her breath pauses. The chapel is a relatively new edition to such an old basilica, and in the handful of occasions Belizabeth has had time to visit, she cannot remember a time she was without attendants or company or otherwise on her lonesome. The effect this has, then, is when confronted with the over-enlarged visage of Citrina on the other end of the silent, still chapel, Belizabeth is struck not with the feeling of entering into another hallowed space, but rather a secret rendezvous with an old friend.

Her heartbeat quickens in her chest, before she silently curses herself, chastising her own blood for betraying her so readily. Her shoes click neatly as she steps slowly up the aisle–the only noise apart from the muted noises of the city outside. In the front aisle she gathers her skirts, lowers a kneeler, and gracefully lowers herself down onto it with a practiced ease that speaks to decades of supplication. From her kneeling position, the angle of the sun through the glass falls just short of blinding her.

All the while, her eyes never leave the yellow facade of Citrina’s face.

Belizabeth has never had issues with sitting still and casting her thoughts to the heavens, but as she kneels in the empty cathedral, she finds herself at a loss. She cannot say she had a goal in mind when coming here, nor can she particularly recall a train of thought, as if her mind is still attempting to catch up with her body. So, in some pathetic attempt to justify her presence here, she scrutinizes. Her eyes scour the coloured glass for any flaw, any stain, any chink, and the lead for any apparent weaknessness in the construction. Of course she finds none, to her great irritation. She had spared no expense in the material or labor when commissioning the piece, after all.

“I could find no fault in you either,” Belizabeth whispers, despite herself. An unorthodox beginning to a petition, but it will have to do.

Out of respect for Citrina’s preferences in life, her doppelganger is memorialized with a blue hood covering her head. Only the slightest hints of honey-gold hair peek out from beneath it, and Belizabeth’s eyes fixate on them hungrily.

“I know what your hair looked like, beneath the veil,” she whispers so faintly she practically mouths the words, “The people who come here do not, but I do–every last twist and trace of it.”

\---

One would think attending perfunctory social functions and participating in tedious conversation would be something saved for the nobility to slog through. One would think that holy men and officers of the church could be exempt from such things, to be excused to their studies and matters of graver metaphysical importance.

Unfortunately for Primogen Belizabeth, this is not the case. Instead, she finds herself in an admittedly extravagant garden party, in the sprawling courtyard of some young Vegetanian Lord, the youngest of Arthur Choke’s sons, she believes. The courtyard is full of the sounds of laughter and merry-making from Vegetanian and Fructeran nobility alike, the party of course serving as a pre-ceremony celebration of the marriage between Choke’s son and Duchess Nectarina Persica of Fructera.

As the engaged pair make the rounds through the courtyard, arms interlocked and faces beaming, there is an almost imperceptible tenseness to their grins that can be traced all throughout the celebration. The same wariness can be heard underneath the laughter and the lighthearted conversation if one listens for it, and one does not need to listen very hard. Only a monk living in solitary could miss the rising tensions all throughout Calorum over the past ten years, longer still if strategists’ estimations are to be believed. Belizabeth is not so naive as to delude herself that war is anything but a visitor knocking at the door. She expects an open declaration to be made anytime within the upcoming year, three with any luck. No one would dare to speak about matters openly here and now. The sudden engagement is obviously a poorly veiled political attempt to solidify alliances in the times to come, but it seems all the guests are taking this opportunity to attempt to forget about the bloodshed on the horizon and be merry while they can.

Belizabeth cannot fault them for their behavior, but she fights to curl her lip at the foolish facade all the same. Perhaps thirty percent of her attention is given to the ramblings of Bishop Belljamin, scheduled to officiate the wedding tomorrow, while the other seventy percent is dedicated to keenly eavesdropping and picking apart the crowd with her gaze for any morsel of information that might prove helpful in the coming wartime–anyone hoping to do more than just survive the war likely doing the same. 

“–And I do find it encouraging that both families insisted on a traditional Bulbian wedding. To see such dedication in these uncertain times is a comfort, and to see so many officers of the church present as well. To have primogens all the way from Candia, even, is truly a testament to how the strength of the church will be a cornerstone going forward.”

At this Belizabeth’s full attention snaps to him. Her hand tightens almost imperceptibly around her glass. “Pardon? A primogen from Candia, you said?”

“Why, yes,” the ancient Bishop rasps, leaning heavily on his embellished cane and smacking his wrinkled lips. Secretly, Belizabeth anticipates his imminent passing. “A bright and powerful young thing, Primogen Citrina. Astounding that she only recently received the title, considering her obvious proficiency in miracle work. And a member of the royal family no less, very exciting.”

“Yes, that is– Well that certainly is exciting. A bit unexpected, to see the Princess here, is it not? The last I was made aware, I believed King Jadain has been very strict in keeping Candia’s neutrality perfectly clear.” Belizabeth scours the crowd with a doubled suspicion. She would have noted any Candian attendees, much less missed an entire  _ entourage _ sure to accompany royal blood.

“Yes, well, her role as an officer of the church surpasses the lineage of her house, as I’m sure you very well know, Primogen.” He wags a boney finger at her, and she bites down hard on her tongue. “And she is a close confidant to Duchess Nectarina besides. She made very clear upon her arrival this morning that her attendance was not in any royal capacity, but in support of her own personal alliances to the bride.”

A bullet-time battle of political strings and implications rages inside Belizabeth within a matter of milliseconds in the time it takes to form her next sentence. Truthfully, she would prefer to stay conversing with the Bishop. The more she endears herself to him, and moreover the more she is  _ seen _ with him, will make her succession into his position seem all the more natural. On the other hand, Candian or no, if a primogen is seen forgoing contact with another primogen while at the same function, that could result in talk, and it is far too early to reveal her hand.

She takes a sip of her wine, and gives the faintest hint of a smile. “I did not have the pleasure of greeting Primogen Citrina this morning, nor do I see any of her guards in the courtyard. If you happen to know where I can find her, I would be happy to give her my regards.”

He beckons her closer, and she indulges him, leaning forward. “I believe she mentioned hiding off in the hedge gardens, attempting to keep as subtle a presence as she is allowed.” He gives a conspiratorial wink. Belizabeth responds with a small head nod, and takes her leave.

A torrent of thought races through her mind as her feet guide her over cobblestone and into the privacy of tall manicured hedges.

A primogen from Candia? Why would The Bulb grace an inhabitant of a country that so blatantly revels in backwards practice with its holy light? Surely she must be a hoax, a charlatan, but if her miracles have been confirmed then what does that prove? What implications does that have with regards to her childhood’s teachings, to her own holy convictions?

_ Steady _ . A voice that of her mentor’s cuts through her thoughts.  _ If you wish to be a sword of the faith, you must also be the steady hand that wields it. _

Slowly, the storm of her mind resettles back into neat lines. Conviction. Faith. Composure. Straight back. Deep breaths. Order.

While the hedges in the court’s garden could hardly be considered a maze, they are styled tall and wide, giving plenty of space to hide and plenty of opportunity to go unnoticed. Because of this, as Belizabeth rounds the corner of yet another hedge, she has no time to prepare herself before being presented with the sight of Primogen Citrina.

This must be the heart where the hedges converge, because on the lip of a finely sculpted fountain sits Citrina. The bubbling sound of little cherubs spitting out vegetable broth mixes in with her closed-eyed humming, head tilted back almost as if to absorb the sunlight.

By The Bulb above, she is  _ radiant _ .

What Candians she has met previously were nothing like the vision before her now. Citrina’s hard candy skin reflects and refracts the daylight like precious stone or colored glass, her yellow pallor only seeming to enhance it. The simple circlet on her brow and the way her sugar-spun hair dances idly in the breeze almost makes it seem as if she were ready for a royal portrait. Or, no, the stillness with which she perches herself on the fountain’s edge, and the gentleness with which she cradles the cup in her lap are reminiscent more of the saints statues from her childhood. She is something from a fairytale. She is something from a book. For a moment, Belizabeth forgets her allegiance.

_ She’s just a woman _ , Belizabeth corrects herself.

_ She is an enemy _ , Brocclepatch corrects again.

The vulnerability of this moment is… a bit disconcerting really. The foolish girl has her eyes closed, in a remote corner of a foreign garden, without a single guard in sight so far as Belizabeth has noticed. To see an integral vein of Candia so exposed is quite the temptation, now more than ever.

She has to wonder whether the royal primogen is truly so stupidly naive, or whether her apparent miracle work is remarkable enough to grant her such peace of mind. Either do not bode well.

She makes sure the heels of her shoes clack loud enough against the cobblestone that there is no way her approach can be drowned out by the fountain. When Citrina looks at her, her eyes are the color of shallow ocean water.

_ Steady. _

“I see the servants have done a poor job at keeping your glass full,“ Belizabeth says, gesturing to the empty glass in Citrina’s lap with her own. Criticizing the staff is often a quick way to endear oneself to nobility in her experience. “May I sit?”

“By all means,” Citrina smiles, the smooth quality of her voice almost blending in with the trickling broth, “And I assure you, the staff have been absolutely lovely. I am only attempting to pace myself before the drinking begins in earnest tomorrow.”

Does she mean to insinuate anything about Belizabeth’s own full cup? If she does, her open expression does not betray it.

“A wise choice, I’m sure. Although, I do not understand your decision to isolate yourself here without an armed guard or attendant. Miracle worker though you are, I could drown you in this fountain this instant and hardly a soul would be alerted.”

A pause. And then laughter erupts from Citrina as dimples bloom on her cheeks. “My, you certainly have a dark sense of humor. You would get along very well with my sister in that regard, I suspect.”

“So I’ve been told,” Belizabeth says.  _ They wouldn’t even find you till hours after the fact, _ she thinks.

“Concerning my guard, we encountered some trouble on the road and several of them were injured. I’ve ordered most to stay in bed for a more speedy recovery. I’ve done what I can to tend their wounds to the best of my abilities, but I assure you any rumors you may have heard of my miracle work is greatly exaggerated. I can heal minor injuries, but nothing more beyond that.”

“You are too humble, Primogen. Being blessed by The Bulb itself is quite the rare gift indeed.”  _ You appear so fragile, I wonder if you would shatter if pushed to the ground. _

“No, of course, please do not think me ungrateful for The Bulb’s gifts.” Citrina’s eyes flash to the pendant around her neck, and Belizabeth feels herself grow hot stupidly. “I must assume by the insignia you carry you are a fellow primogen, but I do not believe I caught your name.”

Belizabeth flushes deeper, angry at herself for the lapse in propriety and angrier still at Citrina for pointing it out. She offers a hand, willing the heat to recede from her cheeks.

“My apologies, Primogen Belizabeth Brassica of Vegetania.”

Citrina takes it. “A pleasure.”

The afterimage of Citrina’s skin tinting ever so slightly green upon making contact with her own occupies her mind hours after the fact.

\---

_ Dear Belizabeth, _

Receiving the first letter feels reminiscent of being impaled by a white-hot poker. Belizabeth had assumed the crossing of paths with Citrina would have remained just that, a chance meeting. The conversation had been regrettably enjoyable and Citrina surprisingly responsive to Belizabeth’s dry humor, but the last thing she expects when a servant delivers her a royal missive from Candia is a personal correspondence from the Primogen herself. To say Belizabeth is taken aback is the least of it, and Citrina does not even give her the dignity of disguising the letter as official church business.

_ I have thought much of our time spent talking at Lord and Lady Choke’s wedding celebration, and have decided it worthwhile to continue our conversations through written correspondence, if you feel so inclined. As I recall, our last conversation was rudely interrupted, and I have since thought of several new points to counter your argument concerning– _

Belizabeth paces back and forth in her study, mind alight with suspicion, calculation, and a smattering of what she refused to recognize as hope. Were they to meet face to face again, she could always claim the letter never made it to her. Or, that her response was somehow lost as well. Or, the war could potentially present a solution to Belizabeth’s dilemma in its own right.

The thought of the war taking Citrina makes something painful twist in Belizabeth’s gut. Driven by some unknown instinct, she finally sits down, and writes.

The war rages, and more letters come.

Citrina speaks of her family, and of her siblings and of her love for each and every one of them. She writes of her worry for them, in a frighteningly open capacity.

The war rages, and the letters come more often.

Belizabeth secretly orders a powdered poison, and keeps it in a locked drawer of her desk. She never opens it.

The war rages, and so many are lost.

Citrina’s topics of conversation always seem to somehow come back to the inherent goodness in man, and the eternal sanctity of acts done out of love.

The war rages, and neither of them die.

Belizabeth writes, and can no longer escape the fact she has become dependent on the swoops and dips of Citrina’s writing. She cannot escape how in the span of years gone by, she has not forgotten an inch of Citrina’s face.

The war rages, and neither of them die.

Citrina includes dried leaves and flowers and plants within the folds of her letters. The parchment smells of perfume.

The war rages, and neither of them die.

_ Your beloved friend, Citrina. _

_ Your faithful confidant, Belizabeth. _

\---

In the light of day Belizabeth does not allow herself the luxury of memory. She does not remember honey-gold hair, nor baby blue cloth in the breeze, nor delicate fingers curling around pages, nor laughter ringing louder and clearer than church bells.

In the same way children use blankets to fend off the dark, Belizabeth uses the dark to shield herself from the day. When she slips under the covers of her bed, she drinks deep from the well of recollection, of round lips, the contour of a waist under snug fabric, the splattering of moles on a slender neck, the perfect arch of a stretched back.

In the safety of the dark she imagines hands on skin, hands in hair, hands on waists, hands on thighs, yellow-green hands, hands sticky with combinations of heat and sugar and sweat. She imagines the phantom taste of sugar on her tongue. In the safety of the dark, she hungers.

When the golden light of morning peaks through her window, she rises and forgets all over again.

\---

The last time Belizabeth sees Citrina, she knows she cannot see her again.

The Bulbian Church has called a conclave of senior officers in order to determine if and what the church’s official position should be with regards to the war. Belizabeth almost convinces herself not to attend in order to avoid seeing Citrina. Belizabeth goes to ensure that she does.

Officers are provided small, private quarters in which to deliberate, and yet somehow they find themselves alone and quietly whispering in one of the many empty cathedral hallways. It gives the impression they are conspirators. In a way they are.

“Belizabeth, please–”

“No, I refuse to–”

“I know your feelings align with mine. I refuse to lie to you, Belizabeth, and I hope you respect me enough to do the same.”

“This is not a matter of truth, Citrina, this is a matter of holiness and sanctity–”

“Please! I know you know in your heart of hearts, you have to know. There is nothing more sacred under The Bulb’s light than acts of joy and lo–”

“–Stop! Please, stop. I will not hear any more of this. If you wish to remain my friend you will not say that word. Not to me. Not ever. I understand things operate differently in Candia, but you and I both have a responsibility to remember ourselves. I cannot, Citrina, I simply will not allow this.”

Belizabeth hates the shaking of her voice and the tears she is unable to keep behind her eyes. She hates how horribly her body aches to close the insignificant gap between them. She hates herself for allowing things to have evolved as far as they already have.

What’s worse is the look in Citrina’s eyes as she silently relents. Belizabeth would have preferred hurt, despair, or even hatred, but instead Citrina looks at her with eyes so full of loving compassion it makes her chest burn. She looks at her with an unending patience for something Belizabeth is unable to give.

In the dead of night, Belizabeth finds Citrina’s quarters. She holds no candle, not daring to allow a single soul to suspect someone might be wandering the corridors. She stands there, silent, unmoving, staring into the darkness where the simple wooden door stares silently back.

Three times her hand pauses just short of knocking. Three times she does not enter.

\---

The beginning of the end starts with a change in signature.

_ Love, Citrina. _

It hurts, in more ways than one. Belizabeth writes back:  _ Faithfully, Belizabeth. Cordially, Belizabeth. Bulb be with you, Belizabeth. Best, Belizabeth. Regards, Belizabeth. Best regards, Belizabeth. _

Never  _ yours _ , never  _ truly _ , never– and yet all she receives back is:

_ Love, Citrina. _

Belizabeth cannot bring herself to respond in kind, nor request that Citrina stop, and it is in this way she knows she is damned.

\---

_ Sir Keradin, _

_ If you have followed the instructions I have given you directly, you will be alone, in a locked room, away from any other living soul as you read this. If you intend to continue following my instruction, you will also burn this note directly after reading it, and will sift through the ash to ensure no piece of it remains. _

_ What I ask henceforth I ask not only as a voice of The Holy Bulb above, nor only due to my confidence in you as a knight of the faith, but out of concern for the very soul of Calorum itself. If I am the voice of the faith then you are the mace, and as I am sure you already know, there are times when righteous acts must become righteous acts of violence. Not only this, but you must know that in order to secure the salvation of The Bulb, there are times when its light cannot shine upon everything in its dominion. This is all to say, Knight, that I must make absolutely sure of this: when you swore to uphold the tenets of the faith, did you swear this out of love or out of conviction? You swore to obey without question, without doubt, and without complaint. Do you intend to keep this vow? And moreover, do you feel you can muster five to seven other soldiers who can say the same? _

_ If you feel as if your answers to my questions are to the affirmative, then instruct a servant to bring me a note by your hand only with the script “Ay” and you will receive further instruction. If you feel you are unable to maintain your holy vows, do the same only with the word “Nay” and we will not be in contact again. I do not think it necessary to remind you the grave importance of discretion in this regard. _

_ May The Bulb guide your hand, _

_ Archbishop Belizabeth Brassica _

\---

_ Citrina, This may be the last– _

_ Citrina, If this letter reaches you in time– _

_ Citrina, I read the recipe you sent me. It is– _

_ Citrina, Of all the words left unsaid– _

_ Citrina, Sacrifices are to be– _

_ Citrina, If you are reading this letter– _

_ Citrina, Beloved– _

_ Citrina, Enemy despised– _

_ Citrina, Forgive me– _

_ Citrina, How I have cursed you– _

_ Citrina, The first time I saw you, I– _

_ Citrina, My closest friend– _

_ Citrina, Do you remember that time in the garden– _

_ Citrina, Please understand– _

_ Citrina, Please forgive me– _

_ Citrina– _

_ Citrina– _

_ Citrina, I– _

_ Citrina, You– _

_ Citrina, You have taken something from me, and I would very dearly like it back. _

_ \--- _

“I made myself sick with letters I tried and failed to draft in my mind. All in vain of course, for no letter could have possibly made it to you in time. I did not leave my bed. I could not wash, or rise, or keep down food in the weeks between Sir Keradin’s departure and the news of your death. My servants, having no reason to suspect any illness other than the physical, brought many physicians to my door. I turned them all away. I did not want their healing. I would not let them lessen this trial for me.”

One of the stones on Belizabeth’s finger is cut into a sharp, jagged diamond, and is perfect for twisting around and digging into her palm when needing a physical pain to fight against.

“I hated Keradin and every single soldier in that traveling party. I won’t delude myself into thinking it was righteous–this was a deep, and personal disgust. It was easy finding a reason to punish them, of course, though I cannot remember how I justified it in the end. Likely something to do with insufficient proof, even with the news arriving before they did. I think–”

Belizabeth does not cry. More importantly, she does not weep. In her most severe opinion, weeping is a weak and childish endeavour and one that should be indulged sparingly if at all.

She wipes away the wetness on her cheek. Her voice does not tremble.

“I think some part of me hoped they would fail. Sir Keradin was only newly knighted, after all, and there is always the possibility of the untested losing nerve. I thought perhaps he would refuse my request outright, or reconsider on the road, or even perhaps spare you in the last final moment.”

She is beginning to lose feeling in her calves from the kneeling, but she will not rise. This is no longer only just a petition, but a confession, and she is not finished confessing her sins.

“This I hope you forgive me for most of all, my cowardness, my inability to face you as I signed away your life. Or, if not your forgiveness, I at least hope you understand my actions, in the end.”

She must look mad, muttering lowley into her clasped hands. How funnily devotion can resemble madness.

“I have tried to understand you, even post-mortem. It is remarkably easy to claim personal possessions as sacred relics once a person has been canonized. I have so many of your dresses, your veils, your books, your drawings, my letters–I have so much but it is never enough. I have spent countless hours in seclusion with your Book of Leaves, tracing again and again the tiny script you left in the margins. None of it has brought me any closer to you, nor any substantial comfort.”

Enough time has passed inside the chapel that the sunlight filtering in through the stained glass has slowly crawled away from Belizabeth’s kneeling form, leaving her in darkness.

“But this loneliness I have brought on myself. I cannot allow myself to feel guilt in consigning you to death, Citrina. Guilt is a byproduct of an uneasy mind, and I have only acted in the greater good of Calorum. To admit guilt now would be to admit wrongdoing, and there are far greater and more terrible things to be done.”

These words are not new. This back and forth confession and justification has played itself out time and time again in the unsleeping hours of the night. The ending is always the same, and the ending always starts back at the beginning.

She does not hear the muted sound of soft-soled shoes approaching until she hears the voice of Archbishop Onionpatch some pews behind, “Petitioning Saint Citrina, your Holiness?”

Onionpatch is a spineless fool, but a clever one, and if there is even the slightest insinuation in his tone, Belizabeth will not let it stand. Belizabeth rises from her kneeling position to face him. She watches the slight clench of his jaw and downturn of his head at the sight of her dignified frown. “Her feast day approaches, after all. What’s more, I do not appreciate being startled, Archbishop.”

“Of course, Pontifex,” he stammers. She watches a bead of sweat form on his brow with no small amount of gratification. “I do not mean to disturb your meditation, but a new missive has come from The Sanctus Putris with regards to progress made with the Ceresian animation texts. I thought it only right to alert you right away.”

“Indeed. You were correct in summoning me, I was almost finished in any case. You may begin sharing the details on the way.”

Belizabeth allows Onionpatch to walk ahead of her for just a moment, so that he is unable to see the final glance she throws over her shoulder. Yes, she knows exactly what Citrina’s hair looks like beneath the veil, and perhaps that is precisely the problem.

Tomorrow, she will rise. She will try and fail to imagine how things could have been different.

Tomorrow, she will go on to do more and more terrible things.

Tomorrow, she will make sure that none of it,  _ none _ of it has been done in vain.

**Author's Note:**

> gethsemane - dry the river
> 
> [tumblr](http://crayfishcoffee.tumblr.com/) \- [twitter](https://twitter.com/crayfishcoffee)


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